He is Woman, Hear Him Cry
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke and Leslie are faced with one of their most unusual fantasies yet. Follows 'MS. Island Lord Mayor'.
1. Chapter 1

§ § § -- December 12, 1992

Roarke and Leslie had just finished breakfast when they heard running footsteps, and looked around in time to see one of the Ichino quadruplets skid to a stop in the lane at the edge of the grassy strip in front of the main house. "Miss Leslie, you're not going to use that post to ring the bell, are you?" Jonathan Ichino asked breathlessly.

Leslie and Roarke looked at each other in surprise. "I always do that, Jonathan, why?" she asked.

"Could I do it?" he pleaded unexpectedly.

"Don't tell me," Leslie said, resigned and amused at the same time. "You and the other quads are still looking for ways to earn Christmas money."

"Yeah, and since the girls and Jeremy didn't think of it, I didn't want to let 'em get ahead of me," Jonathan explained. "I won't charge much. Five bucks a Saturday…and I get to climb into the bell tower."

"Well, I don't know if that's very wise," Roarke said. "No one has been in the tower for a very long time, and I am not sure what sort of condition it's in." Jonathan looked crestfallen, and he smiled. "We do appreciate the thought, however."

Leslie grinned. "But since you're standing there, go ahead and push the button on the post. I'll still give you five dollars." Jonathan brightened a bit, went to the post and pressed the button, setting off the familiar clanging from the bell tower. Within seconds employees began streaming along the lane, heading for the plane dock.

"That's really cool," Jonathan remarked, watching them go. "But I still wish I could go into the tower and ring the bell from there."

Leslie laughed. "Tattoo used to do that—Camille's probably told you, since I know you guys are a little young to remember when he was here. Would you be willing to shout that the plane's on its way if you went up there?"

"Oh yeah, for sure!" Jonathan said enthusiastically.

Roarke joined in Leslie's laughter this time. "We'll see, Jonathan. In the meantime, I think you'd better get back home before your family realizes you're gone and sends out a search party. Leslie and I must get to the plane dock ourselves."

"Okay, but please let me know if I can ring it again next weekend from the tower," the boy said, grinning and finally running off across the lawn and down a trail. Roarke and Leslie, still chuckling, made their way to the end of the veranda and down to meet the car that pulled up in front of them.

Their first fantasy that weekend was one of the stock-in-trade varieties, namely a college student who wanted to be a rock star; and as it happened, this was fortunate, for the second fantasy turned out to be something else again. "If that guy isn't a lumberjack, I'll eat my metaphorical hat," Leslie said, watching the towering, brawny brown-haired man stride down the landing dock with a huge grin on his face.

"You're actually not very far off the mark," Roarke observed. "That's Mr. Timothy Ashcroft, who hails from Talkeetna, Alaska. He works on the oil pipeline there."

"Alaska!" said Leslie, impressed. "We don't get many from there—and you'd think we would, on account of the climate and all. So what's his fantasy, besides having a couple of days to thaw out?"

Roarke smiled. "Oh, weather is quite unimportant to him," he said, "and you'll understand why when I tell you that his fantasy is to be a woman."

His smile grew into a grin when Leslie turned slowly and stared at him as if he'd uttered something in Hindu. "Would you mind repeating that?"

"Only for the weekend, of course—but you heard me correctly," Roarke said, enjoying her reaction. "You see, Mr. Ashcroft has been in love with a particular woman for several years now, and has asked her twice to marry him; but she has turned him down on both occasions. According to him, she told him that he will never understand just what it is a woman really wants. The very few women he knows through his occupation, needless to say, have not cooperated with him in his quest to find the answer to his girlfriend's charge. So he has come to the conclusion that the only way to gain the knowledge he seeks is by being a woman—and therefore, he has come to us."

"Oh," Leslie murmured, still a little stunned by the whole concept. "Well, I guess I have to give him points for trying, but he's in for an awful lot of embarrassment."

Roarke gave her a quizzical look, then realized what she meant. "Ah, Leslie, my child, you misunderstand. Mr. Ashcroft does not want to assume the guise of a woman; he wishes to actually _become_ one."

Leslie stared at him, staggered anew. "Oh my God. I can't wait to see how you're going to pull this one off."

Roarke favored her with that mysterious smile of his that never failed to mildly exasperate her, then turned to accept his drink and lifted it in salute. "My dear guests, I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!" he proclaimed cordially. Leslie peered at Timothy Ashcroft, who raised a tall glass full of bright-green beverage in return toast. Did he look excited, or just terrified?

‡ ‡ ‡

About ten o'clock, the door opened and Timothy Ashcroft—now clad in shorts, sandals and a bright yellow T-shirt that read _Talkeetna Pipeliners_—ventured into the foyer, looking curiously around the room. Roarke and Leslie, at the desk, saw him at the same time, and Roarke spoke up. "Please come in, Mr. Ashcroft."

"Oh…thanks, Mr. Roarke." Ashcroft had to be something like six feet five inches tall; his voice, deep and resonant, suited his height. Leslie watched him step into the study and fold himself into one of the club chairs, looking a little uncomfortable. "This place is something else again. The travel agency had some brochures, but pictures don't do it justice."

"I am very pleased," Roarke said with appreciative warmth. "Well, Mr. Ashcroft, perhaps you would be willing to fill me in on just how you decided upon requesting this fantasy of us. To say the least, it's quite unusual, and I admit to curiosity."

Ashcroft grinned sheepishly. "I can't blame you there, Mr. Roarke. Well, I guess I'm what you might call a real man's man. Born and raised in Talkeetna, four brothers, played high-school and college sports, went right to work for the pipeline once I got my degree…the usual drill, I suppose. Men still outnumber women in Alaska, so I guess I was pretty lucky to find Heather—my girlfriend. I'm trying to make her my fiancée, but she keeps turning me down. And I can't quite figure out why, Mr. Roarke. I make decent money and I can provide a good home for her. I know women like mushy romantic stuff and all, so I've tried to win Heather over every way I can think of. Nice restaurants, flowers on Valentine's Day, jewelry on her birthday, gift certificates to her favorite clothing stores on Christmas…well, I guess you get the picture. But she doesn't seem to think that's enough."

"I see," Roarke said, although his tone indicated he didn't. He studied Ashcroft for a moment, then said, "Perhaps there is something you're not telling me."

Ashcroft sat up. "I'm trying to be forthright, Mr. Roarke, really. But I don't know what you're talking about."

Roarke settled back in his chair and glanced at Leslie. "If my daughter doesn't mind, perhaps you would demonstrate a typical date with Heather, using Leslie as a stand-in of sorts, so that I can get a better idea of what you wish to learn."

Leslie shrugged. "Whatever's necessary."

Ashcroft eyed her and grinned in appreciation. "Well, this won't be too hard. Maybe the best thing is to pretend we're going to a nice restaurant."

"That might be easier out on the porch," Leslie suggested. "We have a table out there where we eat most of our meals. Is that all right, Father?"

Roarke nodded and arose along with Leslie and Ashcroft; he noted that their guest opened the door for Leslie and ushered her through first. On the veranda, Roarke stood aside, watching, while Ashcroft pulled out a chair for Leslie and then sat down himself. Next he pantomimed lifting a menu and pretended to scan his choices, then turned to Roarke and hailed him. "Waiter! I'd like the T-bone, and the lady will have grilled sole." Roarke raised an eyebrow but joined in the impromptu staging, pantomiming placing plates on their table. Leslie sat watching in silence, her expression neutral.

"Wine, sir?" Roarke inquired with all seriousness.

"Chateaubriand," Ashcroft said immediately. Roarke went through the motions of pouring from an imaginary bottle, then stepped back to observe.

"This is a great place, Heather," Ashcroft said enthusiastically to Leslie. "It's my favorite restaurant in the entire city. Their sole's pretty darn good, although I prefer the T-bone myself. Go ahead and try the wine. Good stuff, huh?"

Leslie pretended to lift a wineglass and took a "sip" from it, then nodded. "Not bad," she said, deciding on the spur of the moment to experiment, "but I really would've rather had Riesling."

Ashcroft flapped a hand at her in dismissal. "Naaah, Chateaubriand's better. Hey, y'know what Craig said the other day at work?…" He carried on nearly nonstop for about two straight minutes before Leslie cleared her throat delicately.

"Pretty funny story," she said. "It reminds me of something that happened the other day at the office, when…"

"Oh geez, I forgot—I wanted them to leave the wine bottle," Ashcroft interrupted her. "Where's the waiter?" He looked around as if no one else was in sight, thus missing the look Roarke and Leslie exchanged. Ashcroft, still peering around for the imaginary waiter, began to tell another anecdote at the same time.

This time Roarke interrupted. "Excuse me, Mr. Ashcroft, I believe that is sufficient. Why don't we go back inside?"

Ashcroft blinked in surprise and got out of the chair. "Oh, yeah. I guess I got a little carried away there. How'd I do?"

Leslie grinned. "Are you involved with your local theater group?" she bantered. "That was quite an act you put on."

The tall Alaskan laughed. "Yeah, actually I am. It's kind of a side diversion," he said. "So did you get an idea of what's happening?"

"I daresay I have enough to go on," Roarke said. "Have you ever given the lady a chance to state her preferences before you…take charge?"

Ashcroft stopped short and stared at him. "Huh?"

"You ordered for her without asking what she might like; you chose the wine, and when she suggested she might prefer something else, you waved aside her comment. And you dominated the dinner conversation. When she did manage to get a word in edgewise, you interrupted her, perhaps without really listening to her."

"Do you do that to Heather?" Leslie asked gently. "Maybe she'd rather have a different wine or an entrée of her own choosing."

Ashcroft blinked. "Oh. Well…I never really thought about it. I mean…Heather never complains, anyway. Which is why I thought everything was hunky-dory."

"Does she live in Talkeetna too?" Leslie asked.

"Sure. She's not a native, though—she moved from Albuquerque in high school. She still complains about all the snow, and I can tell she doesn't like the cold too much. She might not be cut out for life in Alaska, but I want her to like it there, so I really try to show her the good side of my home state." Ashcroft trailed Roarke and Leslie inside, discoursing all the while. "And when the weather stinks—which I admit is pretty often, especially this time of year—I try to protect her from it. I got her the warmest parka and boots I could find, made by the Inuit—if anyone knows how to handle Alaska winters, they do. I always walk with her so she doesn't slip on the ice or anything. I'm building a real nice, snug house so she'll be protected from the cold, and I've got all the furniture and décor on order, and…" He went on for some time, with his hosts listening patiently, until Roarke held up one hand and finally silenced him.

"Please forgive me for my interruption," he said kindly, "but I believe you would like to get on with your fantasy, would you not? It would appear we have all the information we need to understand why you feel that actually becoming a woman for a weekend would give you better insight on the feminine gender."

"Oh, good," said Ashcroft, looking a little confused but giving in with good nature. "In that case, what happens next?"


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- December 12, 1992

"Please come this way," Roarke said, leading the way to the time-travel room at the foot of the stairs. However, this time it did not contain the trappings of some past era; on this occasion, the walls were bare except for a huge mirror with a gilded frame. Otherwise, the room held only a dressmaker's form with a powder-blue dress and jacket on it, matching high-heeled shoes resting beneath; a chair beside that; and a small round table covered with a floor-length, ruby velvet cloth, atop which sat a purse, a heavy lead-crystal glass, and a decanter about three-quarters full of an amber-colored liquid. Roarke paused beside the open door, with Leslie beside him, while Ashcroft peered at the assorted items. "Change your clothing, please, and when you are ready, let us know." He and Leslie backed up a few steps and he started to pull the door closed.

"Change…into what?" Ashcroft asked apprehensively.

"Those clothes," Leslie said, indicating the dressmaker's form. Roarke closed the door on their guest's startled features, and they looked at each other. Leslie grinned broadly; Roarke sighed a little and smiled reluctantly in reply.

They waited for fifteen minutes, during which time Roarke answered two phone calls and Leslie accepted a stack of mail from Kali, their postal deliverer; then the time-travel-room door eased open and Timothy Ashcroft's head poked cautiously around it so that it was all they saw of him. "I, uh…excuse me, but I…"

"Is something wrong, Mr. Ashcroft?" Roarke inquired.

"Well…I guess I'm ready…" Ashcroft cleared his throat.

Roarke nodded, and he and Leslie both crossed the room to the door and stepped inside. Here, they got a good look at Timothy Ashcroft. The dress he wore was clearly two sizes too small for him; the fabric strained across his torso. He hadn't even tried to get the jacket on. As for the shoes, he was teetering on them in the precarious manner of a drunk, although he was perfectly sober and plainly mortified to boot. "This is gonna be worse than I thought," he said.

"Oh, you're not quite finished yet," Roarke said with a smile.

"I'll say," Leslie put in. "You forgot the pantyhose."

"Ah, yes," Roarke exclaimed, as if just now reminded. "Of course—thank you, Leslie. I believe they may be beneath the table." Leslie knelt and lifted the red cloth, pulling out a small package and handing it to their red-faced guest.

"I'm assuming you don't know how to put these on," she said questioningly.

"Oh man, you don't know the half of it," Ashcroft mumbled, staring at the packet. "I'm starting to think this was a really dumb idea. I didn't know I was gonna have to dress the part…y'know what I mean?"

"If you are to gain all possible knowledge from this experience," Roarke pointed out, "then it's only proper to make use of all the accoutrements. Leslie, if you'll kindly demonstrate the proper way to don those…" He gestured at the package in Ashcroft's hands.

"Sure," Leslie agreed. Roarke smiled and backed out of the room again; Leslie took the packet back, extracted its contents and showed Ashcroft how to gather each leg at a time in his hands. "Very simple really," she said, holding up the bunched-up nylon leg so he could see how she had done it. "Once you've got the leg gathered up like this, then just slip your toes in and pull up—gently. You don't want any runs."

"_Right,"_ he said, eyeing her. She tipped her head aslant and gave him a reproving look.

"Mr. Ashcroft, believe me, this is the easy part. Before you get to the point of no return, you might as well tell me now so I can advise my father. Do you still want to go through with this fantasy, or would you rather back out?"

For a long moment Ashcroft stood considering his options, then heaved an enormous sigh. "No, I'll go through with it," he said. "If I quit now, I'll just be the world's biggest chicken, and Heather'll never marry me."

Leslie managed to mostly stifle a smile. "Okay, then. Here you go. I'll get out so you can put these on. Just stick your head out when you're done." She made her exit, trying not to let her relief and amusement show. Of course, Roarke noticed.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

Leslie grinned. "Well, we'll find out in another couple of minutes or so."

It took longer than that before Ashcroft poked his head out the door again; this time his face was noticeably flushed. "I hope I'm done now."

Roarke and Leslie rejoined their guest inside the room and surveyed him once more. Roarke turned to his daughter. "Is that satisfactory, Leslie?"

She considered what she saw and nodded slowly. "Mmmm…he'll do."

"Fine," said Roarke with a decisive nod. "Now for the other, crucial part of the transformation." He turned to the little table and poured out a quantity of the contents of the decanter into the glass, then presented the glass to Ashcroft.

"What's this?" Ashcroft asked, accepting the glass and squinting at its contents.

"A potion," replied Roarke. "Very carefully and painstakingly concocted, I assure you. It is designed to last thirty-six hours from the time you ingest it. Drink it, please."

Ashcroft's eyes went wide, and for some reason he looked at Leslie. "You mean, that's _it?"_ he asked incredulously.

She gave him a gently reproachful look. "What'd you expect us to do, perform plastic surgery on you?" she asked half teasingly. Ashcroft's expression made her suspect he had anticipated precisely that, and she smiled. "Believe me, this is a lot simpler, and much less painful. Go ahead and drink it."

"All of it? Now? At one time?"

Ostentatiously Roarke consulted his elegant gold pocket watch. Leslie's gentle smile stretched into a grin. "Pretend it's a beer," she offered, resting her left elbow in her right hand and tucking her other hand beneath her chin.

"Leslie," said Roarke somewhat disapprovingly. She shrugged and gave him a _well-I-can't-help-it_ look which made him glance skyward for a second.

But the suggestion clicked with Ashcroft. _"Oh,"_ he blurted, as though he'd been given a sign from on high, and without further hesitation chugged the stuff right down. Roarke watched with raised eyebrows; Leslie had to work hard to keep from giggling.

When he finished, Roarke took the glass from him and set it on the table; then he turned to Ashcroft and studied him deliberately, his dark eyes focusing sharply with intense concentration. Leslie watched in solemn silence, her gaze switching back and forth periodically between Roarke and Ashcroft. The room darkened except for a dim light on Roarke and a revolving series of colored lights on Ashcroft, who stood like a statue and stared back at Roarke as if hypnotized. As the difficult transformation took place, Leslie found herself reminded of a melting wax statue. Timothy Ashcroft's features softened, rounded a bit, gradually reformed into feminine contours. His hair grew longer; the faint shadow from a recent shave vanished; his face and body became slimmer and a bit more delicate, and he actually shrank by a good six inches even as Leslie watched.

The whole metamorphosis took about five minutes; finally Roarke seemed satisfied with the results and closed his eyes, taking one step backward. The room brightened to its former lighting level, and both he and Leslie studied the attractive woman who stood in front of them. Their guest stared back, looking hopeful and hesitant all at once.

"What do you think, Leslie?" Roarke asked.

She grinned. "You do good work, Father." To Ashcroft she said, "Go ahead, take a look in the mirror." She gestured at said mirror on the opposite wall.

The former Timothy Ashcroft turned around and gawked at the image that greeted the trio. Slowly Ashcroft approached the mirror, actually reached out and touched the image, then retracted a slender hand and followed the new facial contours, ran fingertips along the hair, reacted with a gasp to the bodily changes.

"Oh my God…" The voice that blurted out the exclamation was a bit low-pitched but decidedly female. "It really worked! Wh…what'm I gonna call myself now? I mean…I can't go by Timothy anymore. Man, if I'd had a sister, she might've looked like this! Unreal, Mr. Roarke, absolutely unreal…I mean, man…is this really me?"

"Yes, it certainly is," Roarke said with a smile. "You are now a woman, Mr. …uh, _Ms._ Ashcroft, with all the corresponding, uh, attributes." He cleared his throat slightly and averted his gaze to some corner; their guest as a woman had turned out to be fairly well-endowed. Leslie eyed her father with great amusement.

"I don't know if I can handle this…" Ashcroft mumbled, returning to the reflection in the mirror. "I mean, I look like a woman all right, but I don't know how to act like one."

"Which is where Leslie comes in," Roarke said. "She will act as your advisor through the weekend should you need assistance with anything. I wish you the best of luck, Ms. Ashcroft, and I do hope your fantasy is the success you wished for."

Ashcroft peered at him as he passed him on his way to the door and remarked a bit ominously, "Me too." Roarke and Leslie glanced at each other—he curiously, she a touch ruefully—behind their guest's back, just before emerging behind Ashcroft into the study.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie had escorted Ashcroft—who cursed at the high-heeled shoes the entire way—to a bungalow, and now stood waiting in the main room while her charge peered into the mirror again. "Well, how about Tricia?" Ashcroft asked.

Leslie shrugged. "It's up to you what name you feel like going by."

"Okay, I guess it's Tricia then." Timothy/Tricia's head popped around the doorjamb. "Can I _please_ change my clothes? These shoes are sheer murder. I don't see how you women stand the things."

"I don't, personally," Leslie confessed. "I have a way of twisting my ankles in high heels, and I'm on my feet too much in this job to make them practical anyway. But you don't have anything else, at least nothing feminine."

"I'm on vacation," Tricia protested. "Don't your women visitors ever wear T-shirts and shorts and flip-flops?"

"Sure they do," Leslie said, grinning. "But you have a little problem. All the stuff you brought with you is sized to fit Timothy, who's quite a bit taller than Tricia is."

"Better too big than too small," Tricia said with determination, kicking off the shoes with enough force to send them flying across the room. "Let me throw on some clothes and we'll do that acid test you were talking about me taking."

Leslie shrugged again and settled herself into a chair, waiting patiently. It took nearly twenty minutes before Tricia came out of the bedroom, wearing the blue dress. "I guess we better go clothes shopping," she said with a put-upon sigh. "All my shorts keep falling off."

Leslie giggled. "Come on," she said. "I'll help."

As it turned out, the acid test Leslie had mentioned came up rather sooner than they had anticipated. They met three of Leslie's friends in town: Maureen, Camille with her son, and Tabitha Zuma, who had come to pick up her mail. Tricia hung back, staring at the young women, while Leslie greeted her friends; then Camille spoke up. "Who's your buddy there, looking like something's about to explode in her face?"

"Oh," said Leslie, casting one meaningful glance at Tricia over her shoulder. "This is a guest of ours this weekend—she decided to buy a whole new wardrobe as a souvenir of her trip to Fantasy Island."

"I did?" Tricia peered oddly at Leslie, who nodded firmly. "Oh…I did. Yeah. Nice to meet you ladies. Name's Tricia Ashley." Tricia made up the surname on the spur of the moment and stuck out her hand, while Leslie watched with interest. Maureen, Camille and Tabitha each shook hands and greeted her, introducing themselves.

"Well, don't let us keep you from your shopping trip," Maureen said, grinning. "I hope you enjoy your stay here, Tricia. Maybe we'll see you at the luau, Leslie—Grady's taking me. We thought we ought to get one in before we turn into an old married couple who stay at home every night spacing out in front of the tube." They all laughed.

"Great…Father and I will probably be there, and I'm sure Tricia here will, too. What about you two?" Leslie addressed Camille and Tabitha.

"Oh, you know the runt here…he conks out by eight," Camille said. "Jimmy has to work tonight, but maybe the quads'll babysit. They'll probably jump at the chance, since they're still trying to earn Christmas money."

"It sounds like fun," ventured Tabitha. "I'll come too." She slanted a shy glance at Tricia and smiled. "You should have a wonderful time. I've never been to a luau, but I've certainly heard about them. I guess it's time I experienced one."

"You're overdue, in that case," Leslie said, grinning. "Okay, super. If you see Myeko and Lauren, tell them to drop in too. You know the drill, everyone's welcome. See you there, everybody." The girls dispersed, and Leslie and Tricia headed for the nearest clothing shop.

"How'd I do?" Tricia asked, looking anxious.

"Pretty well," Leslie said. "At least, as far as it went, since you didn't say much. But that's okay. Now let's see what'll look good on you."

They spent most of two hours choosing clothes, mainly because Leslie encouraged Tricia to try everything on before she bought it. When they had been through five shops and had a large collection of bags and boxes, Tricia finally looked at Leslie and asked, "You think this'll get me through the weekend?"

Leslie grinned, shaking her head. "I was beginning to wonder when you were going to decide you'd had enough shopping for a day. I think you'll be fine."

"Not till you show me how to put on makeup," Tricia said, lowering her voice and glancing around, turning red.

Leslie's grin lingered. "That's true. No need to feel embarrassed about it. Just act as if it's stage makeup. After all, in a way, you _are_ playing a part."

Tricia thought this over. "Hey, that's a great way to look at it. Thanks, Leslie. In that case, let's get to it."

It was nearly another hour before Leslie had a chance to return to the main house, by which time it was almost the lunch hour anyway. "How is our guest's fantasy progressing?" Roarke inquired when she came in.

"Pretty smoothly so far," Leslie said. "We met three of my friends in town, and they didn't sense anything different about him…I mean, her…I mean…well, you know what I mean. I have a feeling I'm going to be all mixed up, all weekend long."

Roarke chuckled. "That's understandable. But don't be lulled by your smooth sailing, my daughter—a fantasy such as this invites trouble."

"I'm just as glad it's waiting to strike," Leslie remarked. "After spending all morning shopping for clothes and teaching Tricia to put on makeup…"

"Tricia?" Roarke asked.

"That's the name he…she's going by for the weekend. Anyway, I'm ready for some fortification. Once I've eaten, I'll have the energy to face whatever may pop up this afternoon. I'll go check with Mariki." She headed for the kitchen; Roarke watched her go, a faint smile lingering. Though he had no way of predicting what twists Timothy Ashcroft's fantasy would take, he knew full well it was going to twist; and he would find it very interesting to see how Leslie handled it.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- December 12, 1992

The luau was in full swing when Timothy Ashcroft, alias Tricia Ashley, stepped into the clearing and paused to search for Roarke and Leslie. Tricia was impressed by the culinary abundance and the number of people who were in attendance; but she was not impressed by the three men who detached themselves from the crowd and gathered around her in a loose semicircle, raking their gazes up and down her form with hearty whistles of appreciation. Tricia squirmed with discomfort; she might be a woman right now, but she still felt like the man she really was.

"Cold?" one of the men inquired solicitously, seeing her shudder.

Tricia let out a bark of laughter. "Cold! Buddy, you probably don't know the meaning of the word if you have to ask that. Listen, I'm looking for somebody, so if you don't mind…" She moved forward with purpose; but the men closed ranks.

"Hey, pretty lady, there's no need to cut ol' Pat down to size," a second man said. "We were just thinking you might want a little company."

"Already got some," Tricia said, realizing as she spoke that she had seen this happen on quite a few other occasions when, as Timothy, she'd watched her work colleagues hitting on the few women in evidence. How many of them had had to endure this kind of pursuit? Had she herself been guilty of doing some of that? In the back of her mind she apologized profusely to those unknown women she might have offended. "That's who I'm looking for. Now please, let me by."

"Give it up, guys," advised the third man. "It sounds like this one's taken, and heck knows there're plenty of other more available broads around here." Fortunately, his friends listened to the voice of reason, such as it was, and the trio melted back into the crowd. With considerable relief, Tricia began to weave her way through guests from every conceivable locale, servers bearing trays of tropical drinks, and the local girls handing out the ubiquitous leis before finally spotting Roarke and Leslie speaking with a young man dressed in shimmering black clothing and wearing mirrored sunglasses. She hesitated a few feet away, just close enough to hear their conversation.

"…you do realize the problems that are inherent in such a fantasy," Roarke was saying. "Such are the vagaries of the lives of successful rock-'n'-roll musicians, Mr. Albans. It was your fantasy to live that life for one weekend, and now there is no stopping it."

The young man drew back slightly and actually lifted his sunglasses off his face to see Roarke properly. "You mean…you can't do anything?"

"Once a fantasy has begun, even I cannot stop it," Roarke said. "At any rate, it seems to me that you are not entirely averse to the attention you've been receiving."

"Whaddaya mean?" Albans asked, squinting at him.

"Look at you," Leslie said. "You're still wearing concert clothes, and mirrored sunglasses are such a rock-star cliché, I'm amazed you went for it. You aren't trying too hard to hide yourself from all those groupies you were complaining about."

The young man grinned sheepishly. "Well, you have a point there, I guess. It's just that I noticed one girl when I was backstage, and I've been trying to find her so I can talk to her, except the groupies kinda got in the way. Maybe you'd know her if I described her to you. She's about so high, short red hair, big blue eyes, some nice curves…"

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "Perhaps," Roarke mused, "you might have a better chance of finding the young lady in question if you take that path over there and follow it all the way to its end." He made a covert gesture to his left.

"Excellent! Thanks, Mr. Roarke, Leslie." Albans began to hastily dodge people left and right, zigzagging his way out of the clearing.

Tricia grinned and approached her hosts. "Great party. You do this every week?"

"Absolutely," Leslie said. "It's part of the package for all guests. So have you adjusted yet to your new identity?"

"About as much as I can ever hope to, I suppose," Tricia said, glancing behind her before focusing on Leslie. "I wanted to ask you something. When single guys like me come here for fantasies or whatever…do you get a lot of stares?"

Leslie glanced at Roarke, but he merely gave her an encouraging smile; so she took it as a sign to handle it her own way. "What kind of stares are you talking about?"

Tricia groped for the appropriate word. "I guess you could call them…lascivious. The kind of thing where to the guy, you're just a conquest to keep him from spending a night alone. My buddies at home call it 'trolling for babes'." Leslie's expression became reproachful; Roarke stifled a smile. Tricia turned bright red. "I just wondered if you have to go through a lot of that kind of stuff."

"Not too much," Leslie said, displaying her wedding ring at Tricia. "This usually keeps them at a safe distance. But there are always a few persistent ones. Why?"

"I just got some of it myself. Three guys all at one time," Tricia told her.

"I see," said Leslie. "Well, you're an attractive woman, and you're going to get that kind of attention now and then. It sounds like you handled it pretty well."

"Aw, man," Tricia groaned, sounding very Timothy-like. "I wasn't expecting something like that when I got this idea. I just wanted to have a better chance of getting Heather to say yes. I mean, I love her, and I really want her for my wife."

Roarke cleared his throat then, and Tricia and Leslie both glanced around instantly. Sure enough, a few people were eyeing Tricia oddly, and two of them were Camille and Myeko, who had just arrived and were waiting patiently for Leslie to finish her conversation. Leslie cast them a quick smile and leaned forward. "You'll have to be careful what you say," she warned gently, "unless you want to blow your cover." Tricia turned red again.

"Got it. Well…thanks." She sighed and meandered away into the crowd.

"What's up with your friend there?" Myeko asked.

"Just a chat," said Leslie evasively, sliding a sidelong look at Roarke, who merely shrugged. "I'm free for awhile if you want to sit and talk. Are Maureen and Tabitha and Lauren here yet?"

"Yeah, they're holding a table for us," Camille said. "Come on."

Tricia, feeling heartily confused, decided she might as well stand unobtrusively at one side and have something to eat. _Better I fill my mouth with food than with my foot,_ she thought disgustedly and heaped a plate with every kind of fruit in the selection. She got a couple of odd looks from the natives manning the buffet table, but thought nothing about it till she had managed to find an empty chair and seated herself. Then a male voice remarked laughingly, "Either they're starving you on this island, or you just got out of prison where they didn't have any of that stuff."

Tricia looked up and found herself staring into the face of a somewhat nerdy-looking fellow with large square-rimmed glasses and a pair of deep dimples. He was slightly on the thin side and wore a light cotton pastel-plaid shirt with a white bow tie. To Tricia, he looked a lot like Eugene from the movie _Grease_. "Hi there, I'm Fred Carruthers," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Fred. Tim…Tricia Ashley." Tricia caught herself nearly too late and stuck out her hand at the other man. "Where you from?"

"Winchester, Kentucky," Carruthers replied. "And you?"

"Alaska," Tricia answered. Carruthers' eyes popped behind his lenses.

"No kidding! I bet it's fifty below zero up there this time of year. No wonder you came to Fantasy Island." Carruthers loosed a loud, hearty laugh that made heads turn, while Tricia smiled a little painfully and ate a particularly large chunk of cantaloupe to avoid having to reply. Carruthers sat up and leaned hopefully forward. "Listen, Miss Ashley…Tricia? Would you care to dance?"

Tricia paused mid-chew and stared at him. The guy seemed nice enough, but she wasn't sure she wanted to go that far. "Actually, I'm just enjoying my fruit right now…"

"Aw, come on," Carruthers coaxed. "This is really nice music, real exotic, romantic stuff. I know I don't look it, but I'm pretty popular with the ladies back home, and I know what they like. So how 'bout it?"

_You, popular with women?_ Tricia thought derisively, but before she could make the mistake of giving it voice, suddenly thought, _He could be a real source of information. If he thinks he knows what women want…who knows but he might be right? What could I lose by listening to him?_ She leaned forward in her turn and suggested sweetly, "Well, if I agree to dance with you, maybe you'll tell me what women like."

Carruthers beamed. "Why, of course!" Without waiting for her to put down the grape she had just picked up, he grabbed her hand and pulled her out to join a group of couples who were swaying to the languid Hawaiian tune the band was playing. When he started to pull her as close as most of the other couples were dancing, she cleared her throat and gave him a look he couldn't misunderstand.

"We just met," Tricia reminded him delicately.

"Oh." Carruthers grinned sheepishly. "I'm sorry." He stepped back a pace or so and placed one hand on Tricia's waist, then took her hand in his other one. "Better?"

"Much," she agreed. "So. What _do_ women like, Fred?"

Fred's grin had a faintly sly quality to it that made Tricia suspicious. "Oh, let's see. They like champagne, flowers, pretty clothes, nice jewelry, boxes of chocolates…plenty of attention, lots of little sweet nothings in their ears, and, uh…" Fred hesitated, and his face took on a bewildered look. "They all say they like to be cuddled."

"Oh?" Tricia prompted him, very interested.

"Well, yeah. I mean, geez, I've never understood that, I gotta tell ya. What's a woman mean when she wants to 'cuddle'? Whaddaya do when you 'cuddle'? Y'know, every time I hear that word, it makes me think of an eight-foot teddy bear with a woman hugging the stuffing out of it. Is that the kind of thing you mean?"

It took Tricia a moment to realize that the question was not rhetorical; Fred was staring intently at her, and it was clear that he really wanted to know. Tricia found herself backed into a trap; she had no idea what the word entailed either. "Well, Fred…I guess it just means they want you to hold 'em," she mumbled, forgetting herself enough that she said this the way she would have as Timothy. "Women are weird that way. My girlfriend sure is. Loves the whole 'cuddle' thing herself. If she gets held, I guess that's enough for her."

Fred peered strangely at her. "Your friend had to tell you that?" Tricia's eyes grew wide when realization dawned on her and Leslie's little warning popped back into her head. She grinned foolishly at him.

"Yeah, well, I guess you could say I'm not that much of a touchy-feely kind of guy…I mean, girl…and my friend is." Tricia sighed deeply.

"Oh," Fred murmured thoughtfully, processing this; then a gleam appeared in his eye and he directed a look at Tricia that she instantly recognized. It was that of a man on the make; she had seen it with her male friends far too many times to mistake it for anything else. Tricia's buried male instincts took over and she shook his hands off her so violently that she accidentally hit the couples on either side of them.

"I told you, Carruthers, we just met," she said icily and lifted her chin. "And I'm not that kind of girl." With that, she marched off the dance floor.

"Good for you, lady!" exclaimed a feminine voice, halting her before she'd gone more than half a dozen paces. "That's the way to tell him off!" A very pretty young blonde came up and stuck out her hand at him. "Hi, my name's Heather Adams."

Tricia stared in sheer shock at her. _"Heather?"_

"Yeah," Heather Adams replied, peering curiously at her. "Are you okay? Did he do something to you?"

Tricia blinked, swallowed and cleared her throat, trying desperately to hide her stunned reaction. How under the sun had Roarke found her? _My own girlfriend!_ she thought incredulously. _I'm gonna get Roarke and his daughter for this, I swear it…_ She sucked in a breath, rather like someone drowning, and pasted on a smile, finally sticking out her own hand. "Tricia Ashley," she said, shaking with Heather. "Nice to…uh, meet you."

Heather peered at her oddly. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Oh…you just remind me of someone I know," Tricia mumbled.

"Ah." Heather's face cleared, then grew puzzled anew as she in turn got a closer look at Tricia. "Say…you don't have any brothers in Alaska, do you, by chance?"

"Oh, uh, well…I—no." Tricia threw Heather a look of desperation and blurted out the first thing that came into her head. "Could we sit down someplace? I feel like I'm going to faint." That, at least, came pretty close to the truth.

"Oh, sure. Come on over this way…I'm sitting with Mr. Roarke's daughter and some friends of hers. Boy, I don't blame you for wanting to get away from that guy on the dance floor. He really looked like he wanted to drag you off with him. What a Neanderthal! I wish men would get it through their thick skulls that women are more than just bodies, you know?" Heather chattered on as she led Tricia through the crowd to a large table where Leslie sat with Camille, Maureen, Myeko, Lauren and Tabitha. There was one empty chair, which Heather had presumably been occupying.

"Hi, Heather, who's your new friend?" Lauren asked, reaching toward another table and pulling a seventh chair over. Tabitha, Camille and Maureen looked at each other and then at Leslie, whose face seemed dominated suddenly by a pair of very wide, very startled blue eyes.

"This is Tricia Ashley," Heather said, plopping into her own seat and making an urgent waving gesture at Tricia to indicate that she too should sit down. "Tricia, I guess you already know Leslie…and these are her friends."

"I met Tricia earlier today," Maureen put in. "So how's it going, Tricia?"

"Oh…it's going," Tricia said weakly, her gaze zeroing in on Leslie and taking in the latter's astonished expression. _So she knows who Heather is. Wonder if she set us up?_ "It's a darn good luau…must be, since all these people showed up."

Everyone laughed. "Oh, this is normal," Myeko said. "I used to come to loads of these before I got married. I managed to talk Toki into letting me have a girls' night out, so he's with Alexander."

"He should be," Heather told her with a firm nod. Tricia stared at her suddenly-very-talkative girlfriend. _What's with her? She's never this chatty at home. Maybe this tropical heat's gone to her head._ "Men need to learn to do their share," Heather went on, leaning earnestly across the table in Myeko's direction. "They seem to think all they have to do is contribute half the DNA, and after that everything is the mother's responsibility. And then they go around yelling about how _they_ had a baby."

Myeko and Camille both laughed. "I know what you mean," Camille said, getting into the spirit of the discussion. "Wouldn't you just love to see a guy coping with pregnancy? He'd spend the whole nine months complaining about everything, whining that he couldn't stand the pain, begging to be waited on hand and foot…and then when it was time to give birth! Men always pretend pain doesn't bother them, but let me tell you, sister, they don't know what pain is when it comes to labor. Any guy would be screaming his lungs out, if he hadn't already passed out."

"Isn't _that_ the truth!" Heather exclaimed, and they laughed again. Maureen and Tabitha exchanged surprised glances; Leslie bit her lip and studied her folded hands on the table. Tricia, still watching Leslie, frowned, wondering what was going through her head.

"Aren't you being a little hard on the poor old male gender?" Maureen inquired with a grin. "Grady says he isn't sure he wants us to have kids, because he's afraid of what I'd be going through. Don't look so surprised. There are some very good men out there, and I'm lucky enough to have found one. Come on, admit it. Not all men are troglodytes."

"No, just most of them," Camille said with a smirk at a giggling Heather.

Lauren stared at her cousin. "Holy cow, Camille, did Jimmy say something to turn you into a man-basher all of a sudden?"

Camille sat up a little in surprise, obviously caught out, and shot a guilty look all the way around the table. "No, but…" She shrugged and rolled her eyes. "Well, for crying out loud, I wasn't talking about Jimmy specifically, just men in general. I've never really known guys to be famous for subtlety, actually."

"Maybe," Leslie put in pointedly, "that's because of your own mindset. You yourself aren't exactly subtle either, Camille. I wasn't going to get involved, but I can't stay out of this. Maureen's right: not all men are troglodytes. I can tell you this right now—if it weren't for Father, I might have grown up believing that. But he showed me otherwise, and my husband reinforced that." She lowered her chin and gave Camille a reproving look that clearly surprised her friend. "If you really feel that way about men, then how on earth did poor Jimmy ever talk you into marrying him?" She then turned the same look on Heather. "And you, Heather—I thought you were in love with your boyfriend."

Heather blushed brightly. "Oh, I am," she insisted. "But there are times when I wish I had the strength to make him eat his teeth." Leslie, though focused on Heather, saw Tricia's head snap around to watch Heather closely. "The man never lets me make up my own mind. Oh, I know he means well—but he's always making decisions for me. I don't get to pick my own entrees when we eat out; I don't get to choose the places we go on dates; he gets me the flowers he thinks I like when I'm really sick and tired of nothing but roses all the time. I have all the jewelry I could possibly want—I don't even wear much jewelry actually. As much as I like Alaska, I really hate the cold. It's brutal there right now, you know. I'd have gone for a nice fur coat or something, but Timothy trotted right out and bought me this enormous parka made by the Eskimos—"

"The Inuit," Tricia broke in without thinking.

All heads turned to her. "The who?" Tabitha asked hesitantly.

"They're not Eskimos. That's the white man's name for them," Tricia explained to her. "They call themselves Inuit, and that's the proper name to call them."

"That's something else he does," Heather burst out, slamming her hands on the table in front of her. "I can't get a full sentence out of my mouth without him jumping in and saying something of his own. And half the time it has nothing to do with what I was talking about. As I was trying to say…" At this point Tricia acquired a startled look and turned very red indeed; Leslie noted it and carefully suppressed a smile. "…he went out and bought me this enormous parka, made by the _Inuit_…and great big heavy boots to go with it. They look about as feminine as a beard and mustache." This was greeted with giggles. "I gotta admit, they keep me nice and toasty, but honestly, I feel like an overgrown grizzly in them. And then he says he's building me a house, and that he has all the stuff picked out for it. What if I want to choose something? That's assuming I'd even marry the guy! He's asked me more than once, but I keep saying no because I figure I'll never be allowed to think for myself for the rest of my life."

"I should have your problems," Lauren said, propping her head on the heel of her hand and eyeing Heather with irony.

Heather shrugged. "Then you haven't had too many boyfriends, or you'd understand. I just don't see why he can't let me make up my own mind sometimes. I really feel like this little fluffy-headed Barbie doll around Timothy. I admit, he's a looker, and he tries hard to be romantic, but he has these ideas about how to do it and he doesn't change them."

"So tell him," Leslie said simply.

Silence thudded down, and they all stared at her. Then Maureen said, "That sounds perfectly logical to me. Why don't you?"

"Because he'd probably interrupt me in the middle of it with some dumb story about what Craig Bonaventure did at work last week," Heather muttered. Leslie's gaze slid for a moment to Tricia, who looked quite stunned.

"Well," she said, "maybe you should try again." She smiled. "I have a feeling he might be desperate enough to listen."

Heather gave her a funny look but shrugged. "I'll take that under advisement. Can we talk about something else, please? I came here to have a good time. Timothy went off on some little vacation of his own, and I've always wanted to visit Fantasy Island, so I figured his being gone was the perfect excuse to come here for a weekend. So I want the full experience. I've been to the casino and the lagoon, and I went sailing this afternoon, and now I intend to enjoy the heck out of this luau." Unexpectedly she turned to Tricia. "Did you meet anybody besides that weirdo you were dancing with earlier? Any nice-looking guys? Thought I'd just scope out some men and maybe dance with some of them."

Tricia gaped at her, and Leslie broke in hastily. "I don't think Tricia'll be doing a whole lot of dancing this evening, Heather," she said. "But there are always plenty of guys around, so why don't you get up and mix with the crowd?"

"I'll go with you," Lauren offered, rising along with Heather. "I'm planning on having some fun myself. We can check out the guys and see if there're any cute ones." Heather agreed, and she and Lauren let the crowd swallow them.

Tricia shot Leslie a betrayed look, but Leslie merely shrugged. With Maureen, Myeko, Tabitha and Camille there, they obviously couldn't discuss the situation. Instead Leslie turned to Tabitha. "So how's Fernando doing these days?" It was enough to distract her friends, who listened to Tabitha talking earnestly about her friend Fernando's experiences in the hospital where he was now an intern.

In the midst of the narrative, an overbuilt young man bulging with muscles came to a stop beside their table and zeroed in on Leslie. "There you are! I can't find Mr. Roarke, so I guess I gotta talk to you."

Leslie stood up, recognizing another of their guests. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Kasek?" she asked, slipping into professional mode while her friends and Tricia watched with interest.

"I keep telling you, call me Roman," the man insisted, grabbing her arm. "Listen, I think the locomotive-pulling contest is rigged. I swear I saw someone sneaking around the engines this evening, but I didn't get a good look at him."

Leslie cast her friends an apologetic glance. "Maybe we should talk this over in a less public setting," she said. "You never know who might overhear."

"Then would you dance with me?" Kasek promptly asked. Tricia eyed the guy with disgust; he appeared to be some sort of professional bodybuilder, the kind whose muscles looked almost grotesque. "This really can't wait, and like I said, I can't find Mr. Roarke."

"All right," Leslie agreed and trailed him onto the dance floor. Camille snickered.

"Locomotive-pulling contest?" Maureen asked, with an aghast yet amused giggle. "I never thought we'd see one of those things here."

"It figures that a dork like that'd have a stupid name like Roman," Tricia remarked unexpectedly, glaring after Kasek and Leslie. "Guys like that give the rest of us a bad name."

The girls stared at her in surprise. "The rest of who?" Myeko asked.

Tricia was spared having to answer when Fred Carruthers hove into view and hesitated a few feet away, staring at her. When he realized she had seen him, he brightened with hope and approached. "Uh, 'scuse me, Tricia…I just wondered. I'm really sorry for the way I acted earlier. I didn't mean to come on so strong. Would you do me a favor and dance with me again, please? We can start all over again. If you don't mind, that is."

Tricia stared warily at him, which prompted Camille and Myeko to trade mischievous looks before starting right in on her. "Aw, go on, Tricia, he looks like an okay guy to me," Camille said, grinning.

"Yeah…after all, not all men are troglodytes," Myeko quoted Maureen, and both girls laughed. Maureen rolled her eyes but grinned tolerantly; Tabitha smiled faintly, still not completely easy around the new friends she had met through Leslie. Tricia, for her part, shot them all a dirty look before getting up with clear reluctance and acceding to Carruthers' wishes. He seemed genuinely apologetic, and she was willing enough to give him one more chance, although she was on her guard.

On the dance floor she let Carruthers lead her around, yakking earnestly all the while. Since he seemed to be quite thrilled with the sound of his own voice, she let some of her attention wander while glancing around, trying to see Heather somewhere in the throngs. Then she heard a familiar voice nearby and tuned in to what Leslie was saying. "A little patience, Mr. Kasek. Believe me, these things usually work out in the end…and yes, the name of Roman Kasek will be remembered, no matter what. That's your fantasy, after all."

Fred, still talking a mile a second, rotated far enough with Tricia in his arms that now she could see Leslie dancing with Kasek. Even as she watched, the muscleman drew an obviously unwilling Leslie into a closer embrace. "I need to hear you say that again," Kasek said in an unmistakably husky voice, crushing the startled young woman against him and then shoving his nose into her hair, taking a loud, deep sniff. "Your hair smells fantastic…like wild roses."

Tricia winced. _How many times have I used a line like that on Heather?_ she thought. _Geez, this fantasy is turning out to be the most educational thing I ever did. The more I find out about my own shortcomings as a man, the more I wonder what Heather even sees in me!_

"Uh, if you don't mind, Mr. Kasek…" Leslie began as he turned them in time to the music. Now Tricia could see that the bodybuilder was wearing a huge smirk; even as she watched, Kasek reached down and grabbed Leslie's behind, squeezing. His smirk grew into a large grin filled with blinding-white teeth. Leslie let out a startled exclamation and began to struggle in Kasek's grasp.

Tricia forgot herself; Timothy's mind took over. " 'Scuse me, Fred," she said, stepping out of Carruthers' embrace, and marched the three steps up to Roman Kasek. "Hey, you. Who d'ya think you are anyway? Leslie's only trying to help you with your stupid fantasy, and here you are copping a feel. Whyn'tcha let her go and take on a real man for once in your sorry existence?"

Kasek stared at her in disbelief, then began to roar with laughter so hysterical that he drew stares from everyone within earshot. In so doing, he released Leslie, who seized the chance to dart hastily aside and then gasped when she realized that Tricia was confronting Kasek. "Yeah, right, lady," Kasek howled in glee. "What're you, aspiring to be a guy? You couldn't take me on if there was ten of you."

"Wanna bet?" Tricia retorted grimly, and without wasting any more words, she let fly with her left fist. A collective gasp went up when she connected very solidly with Kasek's jaw; in fact, there was a clearly audible _crunch_, and half of Kasek's face seemed to skew sideways all of a sudden. The sight was enough to turn quite a few stomachs, and groans arose while people cranked their heads away from the sight. Leslie swallowed loudly in the unnatural silence and looked aside too, wincing.

At that moment Roarke finally materialized out of the crowd, and Leslie's gaze met his with immeasurable relief. He glanced at her, took in the scene and demanded, "What exactly is going on here?"

Immediately at least a dozen voices tried to regale him with their version of the proceedings, and Roarke held up both hands. "I appreciate everyone's willingness to cooperate, but if you don't mind, I believe we should repair to my office and sort out the problem there. Leslie, you'll come with us, please." So saying, he led the way through the crowd, which parted to let him pass, and in his wake came Leslie; Roman Kasek, holding his jaw and looking decidedly greenish; and Tricia Ashley, otherwise known as Timothy Ashcroft, feeling more male than she supposed she should at the moment.

Ironically, the little parade passed Heather Adams, who reached out and patted Tricia's arm with a huge, delighted grin. "Good for you, Tricia!" she whispered. Tricia gave her a weak smile and wondered just how good it had really been after all.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- December 12, 1992

At the main house, Roarke called for medical attention for Roman Kasek before doing anything else. Kasek still looked sick with his pain, but he wasn't so indisposed that he couldn't glare at Tricia. Leslie maintained enough space between herself and Kasek that Roarke noticed and gave her a quizzical look while hanging up the phone. "Is there a problem, Leslie?"

She raised her eyebrows at him and said, "Oh no, not if you don't think sexual harassment is a problem."

Roarke's expression grew alarmed. "What happened?"

Leslie described the incident on the dance floor, and Roarke frowned heavily, mulling over her words. Then he looked at Tricia. "Is this true?"

"Sure is, Mr. Roarke. I saw it all, and it happened just the way Leslie told you it did. I couldn't stand seeing this overgrown deltoid muscle manhandling her like that, so I…" Tricia caught herself, realizing at last exactly what she must have looked and sounded like. "Well, I kinda went to her defense."

Roarke looked at Kasek then. "Unfortunately, due to the nature of Mr. Kasek's injury, it won't be possible to get his side of the story at this time," he noted wryly. At which Kasek immediately managed to look outraged and, still holding his jaw with one hand, pointed at Roarke's desk with the other and made grunting noises that reminded Leslie strongly of Chester the Chimp. She turned her head aside and visibly fought a grin at the image that filled her head, deliberately avoiding Roarke's curious look.

Roarke, giving up on his daughter for the moment, realized what Kasek wanted and handed him a pad of paper and a pencil. Kasek nodded his thanks, dropped the pad on the desktop and began to scribble.

"Oh," said Tricia sarcastically, "he can write?"

"Ms. Ashley, if you don't mind…" Roarke said pointedly, and Tricia subsided. But when she saw Leslie's already-precarious control slipping fast, she smirked. It was about then that the paramedics arrived, peering around the office as if unsure who was the injured party. Roarke smiled apologetically. "Pardon us one moment."

"Who got hurt?" one of the EMTs asked.

"Him," Tricia said, indicating Kasek. "But I guess he's got something to say."

"What's the nature of the injury?" queried the EMT.

"Broken jaw," Leslie told him, still trying not to smile. When Roarke shot her a look of sharp warning, she cleared her throat, calling to mind the way Kasek had looked just after Tricia had dislocated his lower teeth and thereby successfully regaining control at last. The EMT glanced at her oddly, then shrugged and waited with his two companions while Kasek wrote furiously. Eventually he filled three pages and finally put down the pencil, looking up at Roarke and pointing at the pad in an _it's-all-yours_ gesture. Roarke nodded, picked up the pad and read what was on it.

After a moment he turned to Leslie. "Do you agree with this?" he asked, handing the pad to her. She read it, scowling.

"Some of it," she said when she had finished. "He did have a question about the contest, and he said he couldn't find you, so he figured he'd have to talk to me. But then, when he got me on the dance floor and I'd answered the question, he decided to take liberties. I notice he conveniently left that out of his account." She glared at Kasek, who glared back.

"Hey, bud," said Tricia, unable to keep to herself, "I saw you grab her. And I know I'm not the only one, Mr. Roarke. We were all in the middle of the dance floor, and there've gotta be plenty of other witnesses."

Roarke sighed. "Very well, then we'll try to speak with some of those witnesses later. Tomorrow, perhaps. At the moment, Mr. Kasek needs medical attention."

Kasek promptly began whining urgently while the EMTs were attending to him, and Roarke and Leslie peered at him curiously. Tricia snickered. "Is there a problem, Mr. Kasek?" Roarke asked.

Kasek batted away an EMT's hands and nodded vigorously, then proceeded to act out a strange little pantomime in which he reached out, closed his fists around some imaginary object and made pulling motions. Roarke's expression cleared. "Ah yes, the contest."

"He's gotta be disqualified, with that injury," Tricia said incredulously.

Roarke and Leslie both gave her strange looks before Leslie suddenly giggled with realization. "They're not pulling the locomotives with their teeth," she said.

"Oh," said Tricia, grinning sheepishly when the EMTs laughed. Kasek favored them all with a scowl and directed an urgent stare at Roarke.

"I see no reason you cannot participate in the contest, Mr. Kasek," Roarke said, "but I would advise you to steer clear of my daughter in the meantime, under the circumstances." Kasek nodded agreement and finally let the EMTs shepherd him out of the house.

"About time," Tricia burst out and rounded on Leslie. "What's the story here? Are you trying to sabotage my fantasy?"

"Excuse me, Ms. Ashcroft," Roarke said, looking puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

Leslie did, though, and said, "Heather Adams is here, Father. She's Tim—Trish—well, _the_ girlfriend we were hearing about this morning."

"Yes, my girlfriend!" Tricia clarified hotly. "Why did you bring her here?"

"Forgive me," Roarke said, his voice cooling a bit, "but we had nothing to do with Miss Adams' arrival on the island. Was she at the luau, Leslie?"

She nodded. "She was sitting by herself at a table, and my friends and I were at the next one over. She started up a conversation with Maureen, and then she recognized me, and the next thing you know she was sitting with us. She got up to get some punch or something, but when she came back she had Tricia here in tow."

"She saw me fending off the advances of yet another one of your amorous male guests, Mr. Roarke," Tricia added. "She thought I looked familiar, but other than that she didn't seem to suspect anything."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "Undoubtedly that meant she felt free to speak in front of you, not realizing who you really were," Roarke guessed.

Tricia rolled her eyes. "And how! I guess my ego got knocked down a few notches this evening. I've really learned a heck of a lot from this fantasy, Mr. Roarke…more than I ever expected. Maybe too much." She sighed and shook her head. "I'm definitely ready to go back to being a guy now."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry…I thought I had made it clear to you," Roarke said. "If you will recall, the potion's effects were to last thirty-six hours. You still have nearly twenty-four of those hours left." He gave Tricia a meaningful stare. "You must see it through to the end, Ms. Ashcroft; there is nothing I can do to alter the course of your fantasy now."

Tricia stared at him, then threw her hands into the air. "Wonderful. So I get to watch while Heather flirts with every guy she sees, and in the meantime I probably have to keep fighting off guys on the make."

"You wanted to be a woman for the weekend," Roarke pointed out. "It's only Saturday night, Ms. Ashcroft. If it bothers you so intensely that Miss Adams might be seen dancing and speaking with other men, then perhaps you should try spending your evening in another locale. The casino is open all night, and the pool will be open until midnight."

Tricia sighed, shrugged and walked out without another word. Roarke and Leslie looked at each other again. "Do I dare ask what could possibly happen next?" Leslie queried, folding her arms over her chest.

"Perhaps you'd better not," Roarke said humorously, "for you may just find out."


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- December 13, 1992

Tricia plodded back to her bungalow about two in the morning on Sunday, having blown a good hundred dollars at the casino and decided to quit before she was too broke to wait till the potion wore off before leaving the island. The diversion hadn't been enough to keep Heather off her mind, and she wondered where Heather was now. _Not to mention who with,_ she thought morosely.

"Hey, lady, need some company tonight?" a male voice asked suddenly, out of the darkness. Tricia stopped short, then heaved an exasperated sigh.

"If you don't get out of my way, buddy, I'll break your jaw too," she threatened. In reply to this, she heard a few muffled curses and then scuffling, which faded rapidly. Tricia smiled grimly to herself and continued on her way. _Does Mr. Roarke know how many lowlife males he's hosting on his island? Um…maybe I shouldn't go there,_ she thought. _In my regular male state, I probably acted like that sometimes too. No, wait a minute, I never went_ that _far. Actually, that was freakin' Craig Bonaventure, now that I think about it. I ought to've dragged him here with me and had Mr. Roarke turn him into a woman too. I needed to learn some lessons all right, but if anyone ever needed it, it's Craig._ _But oh man, what the heck am I gonna do about Heather? I wonder where she is? Does she have a bungalow or is she staying in the hotel?_ Mind stuck on Heather again, Tricia made her way to her bungalow and let herself in, locking the door behind her and turning on a lamp. What she saw made her gape in mingled amazement and relief.

Heather Adams sat on the sofa in the main room, tears raining down her cheeks. She looked up when the lamp went on and gasped. "Oh, Tricia, I hope you don't mind my being here. But I had to get away from Billy. I met him at the luau and he seemed kinda nice, you know, but then he started doing things I didn't want him to. He followed me to my hotel room and then wouldn't leave, and I couldn't call the desk to have him thrown out because he wouldn't let me near the phone…and I finally grabbed my overnight bag and ran. I just let him have my hotel room." She began to sob in earnest, and Tricia sat down beside her.

"Who's this Billy character?" she demanded without thinking. "I'll go over there and rip his head off. What's your room number?"

"No, no, don't," Heather cried, brushing at her tears. "I don't want any trouble. Besides, you already punched out one guy this evening. If you do it again, Mr. Roarke'll probably throw you off his island. If you'll let me sleep here, I promise, I'll spring for half the cost of the bungalow. But I need a place to stay."

"Never mind the money," Tricia said. "And sure you can stay. But what made you decide to come to my bungalow? Just out of curiosity, you know."

"Oh, well, I figured if I needed a protector, you'd be a good one," Heather admitted. "And you're not a guy, so I don't have to worry about somebody's big paws all over me."

Tricia cleared her throat and shot a glance at the ceiling before turning to Heather. "Well, you can't let that jerk just get away with taking over your hotel room. He'll probably skip out before morning and you'll get stuck with the bill. At least call the hotel and explain what happened. Why didn't you stop at the front desk and let them know?"

"I was afraid he was going to chase me," Heather said. "I didn't want him to have a chance to catch up. Can't we just wait till the morning before we do something?"

Tricia shrugged. "Yeah, I guess, if you insist on doing it that way. Listen…I've been wondering about something." She drew in a breath and spoke carefully. "You were talking about this boyfriend of yours at the luau. If you have a boyfriend, what're you doing flirting with other guys?"

Heather turned red. "I just wanted to enjoy myself. It wasn't supposed to be anything serious, after all. And anyway, I've been so fed up with Timothy being the way he is. I think he means well, but he insists on making all the decisions. I wish he'd realize that I'd like to have some input. Maybe I have some good ideas, but he never lets me say anything so I can show him that. I felt so stifled that I figured, when he went away for the weekend, it was my chance to take this trip I always wanted to take, and have some fun by myself for a change. And it _was_ fun till I met that idiot." She shifted in her seat. "If you don't mind, maybe we could just kind of hang out for the rest of the weekend. You know, like girl pals or something. Scoping out the guys and people-watching and lying on the beach, soaking up some sun. I can sure use it. Right now in Alaska, the weather's brutal, and there's a lot more where that came from. So I intend to make the most of my time here."

"Funny how everybody thinks cold weather's bad and hot weather's good," Tricia mumbled, half to herself. "Me, I couldn't take the heat. It always brings humidity, and then I turn into a giant puddle."

"That's what Timothy always says," Heather remarked with a laugh. "Hey, you wanna sit up and talk awhile? I could make some lemonade…"

"It sounds like fun," Tricia said, still reeling a bit from Heather's sudden propensity for chatter, "but it's almost 2:30 in the morning and I guess we ought to get some sleep. We have all day tomorrow to hang out, anyway. Not only that, but we have to tell the hotel what happened with your room so you can settle that."

"Okay," Heather agreed with a shrug. "I won't bother you, I can just sleep in the sofa bed out here. Do you mind if I borrow your bathroom for a bit?"

"Go on ahead," Tricia said, and the two stood up. Unexpectedly Heather hugged Tricia hard and smiled at her.

"Thanks, Tricia. You're a true friend," she said, then picked up her overnight bag and made her way to the bathroom, which could be reached only from the bedroom.

Tricia mulled over this as she pulled out the sofa bed. Heather seemed to have a lot to say about a lot of things, she realized. Maybe it was time she started listening.

‡ ‡ ‡

As it turned out, Roman Kasek's claim of sabotage proved to be unfounded; and what was more, he lost the locomotive-pulling contest. Most of the island had turned out for it, since it was an occurrence without precedent on Fantasy Island and had proven to be quite a novelty. The crowd at the contest site was slowly dispersing and Tricia was on the lookout for Roarke and Leslie, whom she shortly spotted standing next to one of the vintage train engines talking with Roman Kasek. As Tricia approached, she ascertained that Kasek was doing his "talking" with a pad and pencil, just as he'd had to do in the main house the evening before. His jaw was wired shut, making him look as if the lower half of his face was enclosed in a cage and swathed with bandages.

"I am terribly sorry you did not win the contest, Mr. Kasek," Roarke said, having read Kasek's latest message, "but I must differ with you on one point. You stated when you first arrived here that your fantasy was to have your name remembered by others. And in light of that, you must agree that it has in fact been fulfilled."

Kasek stared at him, clearly not understanding. Tricia snickered, and Leslie caught the movement and grinned in response. Meantime Kasek scrawled on his pad, and from where she stood Tricia could see what he wrote: _How do you figure that, Roarke?_

"Just listen," Tricia said, unable to resist. Kasek turned, recognized her and glared at her. "Everyone around you is talking about you, Kasek. They'll remember you all right. It's a sure thing you're the first guy with a broken jaw who ever participated in a locomotive-pulling contest."

Leslie had to look away to hide the laugh that wanted to burst forth; Roarke eyed the sky with a long-suffering expression. Kasek's glare became blazing and he began to advance on Tricia, who held up her hands. "Hey, you better be careful who you mess with, friend. As you already know, I've got a mean left hook. And you don't have any spare jaws."

Kasek growled deep in his throat, turned to Roarke and pointed at himself, then jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in a gesture that said, _I'm outta this place!_ Roarke nodded. "In that case, have a pleasant journey home, Mr. Kasek." Released, Kasek stalked away and disappeared; Leslie giggled merrily when he was out of earshot.

"I am not certain your intervention was necessary, Ms. Ashcroft," Roarke remarked with a scolding edge to his tone.

"But I think you got the point across to him in a way he could easily understand," Leslie put in cheerfully.

Roarke gave her an exasperated look. "Leslie Susan…"

"Oh, Father, come on—you know as well as I do that Roman Kasek's brains are in his biceps. If he wanted to win the contest, he should've said so. You were right about his fantasy having been fulfilled. I think just about everyone on the island came to see this thing, and I've heard so many people talking about 'that guy with the fractured face' that there's no way his fantasy, as stated, could've _not_ been granted." She turned to Tricia. "Is there anything we can do for you? I assume you were waiting for us to finish with our bodybuilding friend there."

"Actually, yes," Tricia said. "There was something I wanted to tell you about. Heather stayed with me in my bungalow last night." She explained Heather's story about the man who had taken over her hotel room. "She said his name's Billy. I kinda wanted to separate his head from his torso for moving in on my girl, but she talked me out of it…"

Leslie sighed gently. "I hate to interrupt, but another gentle reminder: you need to be careful what you say out loud, or else you'll be the one everyone's talking about."

Tricia blushed again. "Oh, yeah, right." She lifted her hands to her face. "Man, do all women blush like this? I've turned red more times this weekend than in my entire life up to this point. Well, anyway, Heather and I are turning out to actually be friends. She doesn't know who I really am, of course, and she seems to be in a talkative mood this weekend; so we've been getting to really know each other, and I've been discovering things I never knew about her before. Like, she prefers Mexican food to Italian; she's an excellent swimmer—something she doesn't get to do much of in Alaska—and she's never been to any state east of the Rocky Mountains. Dumb little stuff, but I just never knew it before."

"So it appears that your fantasy is paying unexpected dividends," Roarke said.

"Looks that way," Tricia said. "Maybe all this getting hit on by lust-crazed men is worth it for what's happening with me and Heather."

"Tricia Ashley, I was hoping I'd see you again," exclaimed a male voice then, and all eyes focused on Fred Carruthers, who was striding eagerly in their direction.

"Oh, geez. Speaking of lust-crazed men…" Tricia muttered, and Leslie giggled again while Roarke smiled. "Uh, hi, Fred. Actually, I was just about to go find my friend."

"I'll help," Carruthers volunteered brightly. "Hi, Mr. Roarke, Leslie."

"Hello, Mr. Carruthers," Roarke replied cordially. "I hope you enjoyed the contest."

Carruthers nodded vigorously. "Great stuff, Mr. Roarke! It's just amazing, the brute strength of some of those guys. I was gonna ask you. That guy with the broken jaw…is he still around? I really wanted to get his autograph. Imagine exerting that kind of effort with the injury he had! Do you know where I can find him?"

"If you hurry, you may still catch him," Roarke said. "I believe it was his intention to be on the next plane out, and that leaves in precisely…" He checked his gold watch. "Twenty minutes. Your best bet may be to meet him at the plane dock."

"Fabulous, Mr. Roarke! Thanks so much." Fred Carruthers sprinted away, having apparently forgotten all about Tricia, who heaved a relieved sigh.

"Thanks from me too," she said and grinned. "Well, I'm off to find Heather."

Leslie and Roarke watched her go. "This is turning out to be one heck of a weekend," Leslie commented.

"Indeed," Roarke said, eyeing her with amusement. "You seem to be handling Ms. Ashcroft's fantasy with some dexterity. A bit unorthodox at times, but overall you're doing a fine job. If you continue on in this vein, perhaps I will look into putting you in charge of future fantasies on a regular basis."

Leslie stared at him in amazement, her face lighting up. "Really? I'm beginning to feel as if I might almost get up to Tattoo's level of competence."

Roarke grinned at that. "Oh, Tattoo made his share of mistakes, so don't deify him too much in that regard. But he performed his job with great skill, and you are gaining valuable experience yourself." He frowned suddenly. "Now, what did I tell Ms. Ashcroft about the time?…"

"The next plane leaves in twenty minutes, you said," Leslie told him.

"Yes, thank you. In that case, we are due for a check on Mr. Albans, so we'd best hurry." Roarke led Leslie away from the contest site.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- December 13, 1992

Shortly after lunch, Leslie was on her way to Julie's B&B to get a room count for that night when she met up with her friends again, out for a stroll along the far side of the duck pond across from the main house. The only one missing was Lauren, she realized. "What's this, a group stroll?" Leslie kidded.

Her friends grinned at her. "Sort of," said Myeko. "Actually, we're just taking advantage of this fabulous weather. That, and people-watching."

"Speaking of the people we're watching…" murmured Maureen, and all eyes followed Tricia Ashcroft, alias Ashley, as she strode purposefully along the Main House Lane in the direction of the Ring Road. Even from this distance they could all see her fierce frown; she was clearly oblivious to her surroundings. Leslie watched, her stomach beginning to roll at the woman's gait. _Please don't let anyone say anything about…_

"Why is she walking like that?" Myeko asked.

"Maybe she has a rock in her shoe," suggested Tabitha.

Maureen nodded. "That's a possibility. But then, how come she doesn't stop and shake it out?"

"Oh, come on," Leslie said, essaying a grin. "Obviously she's got somewhere to go, and she's just in a hurry to get there."

"Walking like that?" Camille said skeptically. "I mean…that's the way a guy would walk!" At that moment Tricia twisted her ankle sharply in the low heel and expelled a curse that they could hear across the pond. Leslie winced; Maureen and Tabitha looked at each other; Camille and Myeko snickered.

"That's the way a guy would curse, too," Myeko remarked. "I should know. Toki curses like that a lot."

"Oh, he does?" Camille asked, a sly grin spreading across her face as she regarded Myeko. "And what do you do that makes him say those words?"

"Oh sure, blame it on me," Myeko shot back good-naturedly. To Leslie's disappointment, their attention wandered back to Tricia, who had resumed her ground-eating walk down the lane. A moment later she rounded the corner and disappeared from their view.

"There's something really weird about that woman," Camille announced. "I mean, last night at the luau, she kept staring at Heather, that friend of Lauren's. And when Heather was complaining about her boyfriend, you should've seen that woman's face—red as a stop sign. Come on, what's with her anyway?" This last was directed at Leslie.

Leslie tried to borrow some of Roarke's smoothly evasive mien. "What makes you think I know anything about her?"

"She's your guest," Myeko pointed out.

"So?" Leslie prompted.

"So what's her problem?" Camille persisted.

Tabitha cleared her throat. "It's not really any of our business," she said hesitantly. "I know we're all curious. I am too, after all. But I don't think we have any right to make Leslie tell us about her."

"You're right, Tabitha," Maureen said firmly. "Come on, guys, lay off. We've all known for years that Leslie has to live by Mr. Roarke's rules about the fantasies, and you know how strict those rules are. Besides, she might be able to tell us tomorrow anyway."

"Yeah, yeah," Camille grumbled. "But I still say something's fishy about old Tricia there." She sighed at the looks she got. "Okay, okay, I'll drop the subject."

"Thank you," Maureen said in a pointed tone.

"Where's Lauren?" Leslie put in, hoping to change the subject once and for all.

"Oh, she's hanging out with that Heather person," Myeko said. "I had no idea they'd hit it off like that. But I guess it makes sense—Lauren's the only one of us who's never been married and isn't involved with some guy."

"No she isn't," Tabitha said. "I've never been married either, and I'm not involved."

"But what about that friend of yours? Fernando, I think?" Myeko protested.

Tabitha laughed. "Oh, we've been friends for a long time. I don't think either of us has ever thought of the other as anything different. You know, I'm sure Leslie has work to do, and we're holding her up. Are we making you late, Leslie?"

Leslie smiled. "I was actually on my way to Julie's. Out of curiosity, just where are Lauren and Heather hanging out?"

"Oh, Lauren said something about checking out guys at the beach," Camille said dismissively. "Well, since you have to get to the B&B, we won't keep you. See you later."

Leslie waved at her friends as they moved along; then she picked up her pace, moving at a near-run down the Ring Road in the hope of catching up with Tricia. That had been too close a call for her liking. She was almost at Julie's before she finally did find Tricia, who was still stalking along the roadside glaring at the scenery she passed.

"Tricia, slow down," Leslie called. Tricia stopped short in surprise and whirled around to watch Leslie approach. "What's the big rush?"

"Where the hell is Heather?" Tricia demanded outright.

"At the beach with my friend Lauren," Leslie said immediately. "Look, before you go tearing off, I need to remind you again. Do you realize you're walking like a guy?"

Tricia gave her a completely bewildered look. "Huh?"

"You keep forgetting you're a woman for the time being," Leslie explained. "My friends and I saw you a couple of minutes ago, and they noticed that masculine gait you were employing. Tricia, walk barefoot if your shoes are giving you trouble, but for heaven's sake, watch yourself! You keep calling attention to yourself. And incidentally, I'm not so sure you should be tracking down Heather. I realize you're jealous," she said, raising her voice and her hands at the same time to forestall Tricia's budding protest, "but you're a woman, for heaven's sake. Heather wouldn't understand."

"I don't see why not," Tricia said heatedly. "Heather's staying in my bungalow, in case you've forgotten. I have every right to make sure she's not flirting with other guys. I mean, I can always tell her I'm just making sure she doesn't wind up with another loser, and she never has to know the real reason."

"She will," Leslie told her flatly. "Sooner or later she's going to find out—because, as you said, she's sharing your bungalow. Even if you aren't right in her line of sight when the potion wears off tonight, how are you going to explain how a couple seconds ago, you were Tricia, and now you're Timothy?"

Tricia gaped at her. "Oh, geez Louise. I never thought of that."

"Maybe you should," Leslie said. "Either spring for another hotel room for her, or be prepared to explain what happened to Tricia and why Timothy's in her place." She pasted on a smile and nodded her head coolly. "Have a nice afternoon. Excuse me, please." With that, she continued on her way to the B&B.

"But…" Tricia began, letting her voice falter and watching Leslie go. After a long frustrated moment, she threw her hands in the air and yelled, _"Women!"_ At which a passing couple gave her a strange look, and she smiled weakly and decided she might be safer at the beach with Heather and Lauren.

‡ ‡ ‡

Though she did find Heather and Lauren on the beach and even spent a little time with them at their invitation, Tricia found Leslie's parting words to her more than a little distracting. She sat morosely on a towel trying to think up some way to keep her eventual retransformation from being seen by Heather, but couldn't come up with a single good idea. More than once her trains of thought got derailed because Heather or Lauren would poke her in the side and demand to know what she thought of this or that passing man.

Finally Heather grew exasperated. "Tricia, what's the matter with you? You're such a wet blanket today! I thought you wanted to guy-watch with us."

Hers and Lauren's indignant, questioning stares suddenly made Tricia profoundly relieved to have a legitimate excuse at the ready. "I've just got something on my mind," she said with a heavy sigh. "I can't seem to quit thinking about it."

"Well, you can tell us," Heather encouraged her. "We're friends, right?"

"Oh, sure, of course…but, uh, this is kinda personal," Tricia said, flustered.

Heather and Lauren looked at each other and said in perfect unison, "That time of the month." Tricia gave them a blank look, then blushed fiercely when she got their meaning.

"No, it's not that. I just…well, actually, I gotta go see Mr. Roarke," she said, already pushing herself to her feet. "And it's very, very, _very_ urgent."

"Oh," said Lauren, looking curious. "Well, in that case, good luck."

"Yeah," Heather agreed. "See you at our bungalow tonight, Tricia."

Tricia managed only half a smile in response, gave them a limp farewell wave and left the beach at an all-out run. Her sense of urgency spared her the strange stares she was getting from Lauren and Heather as they watched her leave.

"Do you think she has some kind of…well, foot trouble or something?" Lauren asked finally. "I mean…I've never seen anybody run like that."

"I have," Heather said doubtfully. "Men do. You don't suppose…" She and Lauren stared at each other for a long, wide-eyed moment, and then both scoffed, _"Naaaaaaah."_ But neither one sounded very sure of herself.

Tricia sprinted madly all the way to the main house, so that by the time she arrived there almost ten minutes later, she was too out of breath to speak at first. Roarke was the only one in the study. "Ms. Ashcroft…are you all right? Here, sit down and catch your breath for a moment. May I get you anything?"

Tricia shook her head and collapsed into a chair, panting. "Urgent…problem," she finally managed to blurt out between ragged breaths.

"Oh?" said Roarke, resuming his seat behind the desk. "When you are able to speak, then by all means, tell me about it."

It took another five minutes before Tricia could talk. "Well, without going into a lot of detail, Leslie pointed out something to me a little while ago. She said that now that I'm sharing my bungalow with Heather, I'll have to find some way to explain to her why Tricia vanished and Timothy took her place."

"Oh…" Roarke's features grew very thoughtful. "You face quite a dilemma, then."

"Mr. Roarke, you have a tremendous knack for understatement," Tricia informed him with great irony. "What'm I gonna do? I've been racking my brain and I can't come up with a thing, short of leaving Heather the bungalow and taking a hotel room."

"Unfortunately, that would be quite impossible," Roarke said. "There's not a single open accommodation on the entire island tonight. The only thing I can suggest is that you be elsewhere when the transformation takes place."

"That's just great, Mr. Roarke," Tricia retorted, sitting up and glaring at him. "But I have to go back for my stuff—Tricia's _and_ Timothy's. Even if Heather doesn't see the actual metamorphosis, I'll have one hell of a…excuse me…one heck of a time explaining how come Tricia left the bungalow and never came back, and all of a sudden here's Timothy, wandering in and announcing, 'Hi, it's me.' "

Roarke nodded slowly, contemplating this for a moment or two. Then he smiled and leaned forward over the desk. "Perhaps there's a solution. Where is Miss Adams now?"

"On the beach with some friend of Leslie's. They've been watching men parading by for the last couple hours or so."

"Good. Then why don't you return to the bungalow now and pack, and leave Miss Adams a note as Tricia, explaining that you were forced to end your vacation prematurely due to a family emergency. When you've done that, bring your bags back here, and we will leave them in the room where you entered your current…uh, condition. Try to be here at ten-thirty this evening; that is when you will return to being a man."

"Exactly ten-thirty?" Tricia asked. "Not, say, ten, or even nine-thirty?"

Roarke looked faintly reproving. "As I have already explained to you, the effects last for thirty-six hours. There may be a margin of error in one direction or the other, but not to the extent you are clearly hoping for."

"Oh." Tricia sighed and shrugged. "Well, I tried. At least that gives me time to pack and write that note, and then I can go out and enjoy my afternoon. Maybe I'll even hit the bar and really tie one on." At Roarke's raised eyebrows, she said defiantly, "After the weekend I've had, I deserve it."

Roarke gave a slight shrug that said, _Your affairs are your problem, not mine._ "Very well, Ms. Ashcroft."

Tricia rose from her chair. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke. I really appreciate it." Roarke smiled in response.

About half an hour later she returned; this time Leslie was in the study as well as Roarke. "Hi, Ms. Ashcroft," Leslie said, looking askance at the suitcases Tricia carried. "Leaving already?"

Roarke chuckled. "You'll recall, my dear Leslie, that you yourself pointed out a crucial problem to Ms. Ashcroft earlier this afternoon. This is part of the solution." He explained what the plan of action was to be.

"Aha," said Leslie and nodded. "Well, then, follow me." She led the way to the time-travel room, where Tricia put her bags on the floor beside the round table that still held the decanter still some one-quarter full of amber liquid.

"Ugh," she muttered, staring at it. Leslie snickered and gestured her back out. Once she'd closed the door, Tricia turned to her, though including Roarke in her next question. "So, where on the island will I be able to get a steady supply of strong exotic drinks, with no questions asked?"

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other; Roarke shot a glance at the ceiling and shook his head just perceptibly. Leslie shrugged and looked back at Tricia. "You could try the hotel bar. The bartender there has worked all over the South Pacific, and he knows dozens of drinks you've probably never heard of that pack quite a wallop." She looked at Roarke again. "Besides, I think Kaholo has enough sense to know when to stop serving her."

"Sold," said Tricia and grinned. "Like I told Mr. Roarke, I deserve it."

"Just make darn good and sure you're back here by ten-thirty," Leslie warned sternly. "If you're not…well, I'm sure you can imagine what'd happen."

"No problem. It's only four o'clock. I've got loads of time and nothing to worry about, now that my problem's been solved. See you two later tonight." Tricia started out of the study, whistling.

"Watch the way you walk," Leslie reminded her sharply.

Tricia glanced back at her and grinned. "Gotcha, General." She crossed the room and left the house with exaggeratedly mincing steps, making Leslie groan and drop her head in one hand while Roarke finally gave in to his amusement.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- December 13, 1992

"Don't you think that's more than enough, lady?" Kaholo, the bartender from Maui, asked worriedly, peering at Tricia with a frown. "Geez, you've put away more of these than most guys I see in here."

"I tol' Mr. Roarke I'm tyin' one on tonight and nobody's stoppin' me," Tricia slurred stubbornly, squinting at Kaholo across the bar. "Say, you know what time it is?"

Kaholo started to reply, but then there was a hail from the doorway and the heads of everyone in the bar turned. It was the persistent Fred Carruthers. "Hey, Tricia!" he bellowed happily, making a beeline for her barstool. "Barkeep, whatever she's having, get me one."

"Right away," Kaholo said, casting one more doubtful glance at Tricia, and turned away to mix another of Tricia's latest drink. Fred plopped onto the stool beside her and grinned cheerfully at her.

"Been looking all over for you," he said. "You sure are a tough lady to find, y'know? Hey, listen, I got Roman Kasek's autograph. Guy was in a really crummy mood, but once I asked him to sign my shirt, he lit right up. Shame he lost the contest, y'know?" Kaholo set a glass in front of him. "Thanks, barkeep. So, y'wanna see his autograph?"

Tricia peered at him, trying to focus. "Why, he somebody famous?"

"Oh, he's pretty well known in some parts," Carruthers said, taking a swig of the electric-blue concoction Kaholo had just given him. "He's a professional bodybuilder and…whoooo-_eeeeee!"_ Carruthers' eyes popped and he fanned the air in front of his open mouth. "Holy guacamole, that's got a kick!"

Tricia smirked at him. "Gotta watch those tropical drinks, bud."

"Yeah, I _guess!"_ Carruthers coughed experimentally, then took a cautious sip and swallowed gingerly. "Huh. That's not too bad once you get used to it. So, Trish, you been hangin' out here all night, or what?"

"Yeah, couple hours maybe. This's been one helluva weekend, lemme tell ya. I thought this whole damn thing was gonna be a piece'a'cake. News for ya…it wasn't. That Roarke is some operator. Never tol' me I was gonna hafta dress the part or start lookin' like I was born this way…and then whaddaya know, Heather shows up an' she gets in good with Roarke's daughter's friends. An' th' nex' thing ya know, there she is badmouthin' me in frunna all her buddies, and there's Roarke's daughter lookin' guilty as sin…" Tricia rambled on with her story, never noticing Carruthers' increasingly confused look. "So man, by th' time I got over here, I gotta tell ya, I was ready t' get good an' drunk, y'know?"

"Oh, yeah," mumbled Carruthers. "Cripes, after hearing all that, now _I_ wanna get drunk." He stuck a hand in the air and waved it at Kaholo, some way down the bar. "Barkeep, get me another one, willya?"

"Whyn'tcha try th' Volatile Volcano? That'll purge your system real good," Tricia suggested, grinning evilly. "Purge your brain too."

"Yeah?" Carruthers queried with interest. "I guess I could do with a brain purge. Maybe it'll help me forget I gotta go back home tomorrow and start working on that stupid road project outside of town." He rolled his eyes. "Weather's really stunk, y'know. Oh, I guess that doesn't mean much to you, bein' from Alaska and all, but we get snow in Kentucky too. And lately it's been lookin' like we're gettin' a white Christmas for sure. But you know how tough it is to pave a road in blowin' snow?…" Now it was Carruthers who rambled on while Tricia nursed her drink and half listened. Kaholo set a fire-engine-red drink down in front of Carruthers and removed the depleted glass, eyeing them both with distrust before turning away.

"So you work on the state D.O.T., huh?" Tricia mumbled when Carruthers wound down to sample his new drink. "Man, you wouldn't believe some of the guys on the pipeline in Talkeetna. I shoulda hauled Craig down here with me an' had him do this whole thing right along with me. If anybody needed to learn somethin', it was ol' Craig for sure. Ol' Craig, back up at home, trollin' for women, careenin' down the road o' life like it's never gonna end. Someday he's gonna be road pizza, no question 'bout that. Worst driver I ever saw. Biggest braggart in the state. Oh, look, my Turquoise T.N.T. is gone. Say, barkeep, can I try the Indigo Dynamo?"

Kaholo turned and regarded her very dubiously. "Lady, if I give you one more drink, I'll be out of a job tomorrow morning, guaranteed. Do you want to lose me this position? Why don't you give it a rest?" He turned away without waiting for her answer.

"Aw, don't worry, Trish, I'll order one and sneak it over to you. How many you had so far?" Carruthers inquired.

"Eight," said Tricia. "An' trust me, Freddie boy, that's not enough." She slurped the last of her current drink out of the glass, peered at Carruthers and declaimed, "Road pizza."

"Yeah…" Carruthers reared back suddenly, looking rather alarmed. "Hey, Trish…are you okay? You look kinda…uh…"

"What, I got Turquoise T.N.T. on my chin or somethin'?" Tricia reached up and fingered her chin, blinking when she felt stubble there. Her sodden brain returned to stark reality with a loud thud and she gulped. "What time's it?"

Carruthers checked his watch. "Ten thirty-five."

"Aw, man…!" Tricia stumbled off her stool, dug into a pocket and slammed a pair of twenty-dollar bills on the bar, and glanced warily at Fred. "Nice knowin' ya, bud. Lotsa luck with that road project."

Carruthers gaped at her, huge-eyed. Tricia registered his expression, then caught sight of her image in the mirror behind the bar. A two-day stubble had sprouted out of her lower face and her chest had started to magically shrink; even as she stared, she saw herself grow a half-inch taller. With a loud, very indelicate curse, she took to her heels.

Fred Carruthers gawked after the fleeing Tricia, then shifted his horrified attention to his half-consumed drink. "No more Volatile Volcanoes for me!" he announced, shoving the glass away from him. He left a five-dollar bill on the bar and wandered out in a daze.

Tricia found a jungle path and tore away up it, feeling the retransformation taking place all the while. It seemed like forever, but was really little more than two minutes, when the Alaskan lurched through the open French doors at the back of Roarke's study and stopped short.

Roarke and Leslie stared in astonishment. "Where've you been?" Leslie demanded.

"At the bar. I know I'm late. Whadda I do?" came the frantic reply in a rapidly deepening voice.

"In there," Leslie said, pointing at the time-travel room. She and Roarke watched their guest bound across the room and slam the door, making them both flinch.

"Perhaps now you'll stop pacing the floor," suggested Roarke darkly. Leslie rolled her eyes and sank into a chair.

Ten minutes passed before the door opened and Timothy Ashcroft emerged, clad in his own clothing and looking none the worse for wear, except that his drunken condition had plainly survived his transition back to his natural male state. "Whoa," he mumbled, raking a hand through his hair and eyeing Roarke sheepishly. "I gotta tell ya, I sure am glad that's over." He peered at Leslie. "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner."

Leslie sighed heavily, looked up at him and shrugged. "Did anyone see you?"

"Uh…oh, I guess poor old Fred Carruthers musta seen the beginning of my morphing act," Ashcroft confessed. "Somethin' tells me he's never gonna be the same again. Come t' think of it, me either." He grinned foolishly.

"Of that I am quite certain," Roarke said dryly.

"So where'm I sleepin' tonight?" Ashcroft ventured.

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other; then she checked the grandfather clock. "I think you're about to get your answer," Leslie said—at which precise moment the door opened and Heather Adams stepped into the foyer.

"Mr. Roarke, I got your message and I was wondering…" Heather's voice broke off as she caught sight of Ashcroft. "Oh my God. Timothy? What're you doing here?"

Ashcroft smiled at her hopefully. "Just came for a little, uh…break from work." He cleared his throat. "So, uh, did you enjoy your weekend?"

"Oh, sure," Heather said, staring at him. "When did you get here?"

"This afternoon," he told her, and it was plain that the mental gears were grinding, though slowed considerably by alcohol. "And, uh, I didn't exactly…make any reservations or anything…and Mr. Roarke says everything's completely booked up…and, well, hey, I don't mean to impose or anything like that, but I might have to catch some Zs in a lounge chair at the pool…"

"Looks like you fell off the wagon," Heather noted astutely.

He shrugged. "Well, you took off without saying anything to me," he said plaintively, "and what was I supposed to think? I mean…well, heck, I figured you'd had enough of me and I might as well drown my sorrows somewhere." He turned a doleful look on her; Leslie turned away, facing Roarke, and gave him a weary stare that made him suppress a smile.

"You missed me that much?" Heather asked.

"Yup. Uh, say, you had anything to eat yet? I'll spring for it, and uh…you can pick anything you want. No questions asked. You're in charge, okay?"

Heather peered at him in disbelief. "Now I _know_ you're drunk, Timothy Ashcroft. I guess I don't have any choice. Come on, you might as well take the sofa bed in my bungalow, since my roommate had to go home early." She gave Roarke and Leslie an apologetic look. "I better get him out of here. I'm really sorry to cut and run…"

"That's quite all right, Miss Adams," Roarke assured her. "Good night, both of you."

"Good night," Timothy and Heather chorused, and each of them lifted one of the suitcases he had brought out of the time-travel room with him and departed.

"My turn," Leslie mumbled, massaging her forehead. "I hope there's some aspirin upstairs. Good night, Father."

Roarke chuckled. "Good night, Leslie," he said, watching her head for her room. To tell the truth, he didn't blame her.

§ § § -- December 14, 1992

Roarke and Leslie watched the car deposit Timothy Ashcroft and Heather Adams on Monday morning and waited while Heather thanked her hosts and headed for the plane dock. "I'll be right with you," Ashcroft said and turned back to them. "Well, one thing's for sure, I'll never forget this weekend as long as I live. And I learned some serious lessons."

"We're very glad to be of service," Roarke said. "Are you ready to face the winter in Alaska once more?"

"Yeah, I think so. I appreciate everything, Mr. Roarke, and thanks for your help too, Leslie. Now I understand a lot more. Incidentally, what happened to Fred Carruthers?"

"He checked himself into the island hospital last evening, as I understand it," Leslie said. "Something about hallucinations brought on by a drink called a Volatile Volcano." They all burst out laughing, and Ashcroft shook their hands and went off to board the plane arm in arm with Heather Adams.

"Well done, Leslie," Roarke commended her. "Do you think you are ready to take on the supervision of other fantasies in the future?"

"Could you give me a month or two?" she pleaded, and Roarke grinned, patting her shoulder with total understanding.


End file.
